


flint and tinder

by Who_Needs_Reality



Category: The Folk of the Air - Holly Black
Genre: Angst, Carjude feels but Judelocke smut, Exhibitionism, F/M, Hate Sex, I DO NOT SHIP JUDELOCKE, Jealousy, Major spoilers for The Wicked King, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-14
Updated: 2018-11-14
Packaged: 2019-08-23 13:43:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16620125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Who_Needs_Reality/pseuds/Who_Needs_Reality
Summary: “Would you like to dance?”He regards my outstretched hand for a moment, lingering long enough that I know he’s contemplating having me killed instead, but then he takes it. As I knew he would.It’s as we wind our way though the crowds towards the dance floor that I feel it — the prickle of heat on the back of my neck. The weight of someone’s gaze trailing me across the room.I know without looking that Cardan has decided to look at me at last.OR,Jude finds her own revenge on Cardan for what he did to her.





	flint and tinder

**Author's Note:**

> 1) This story has MAJOR spoilers for TWK so do not read it if you haven’t read The Wicked King yet. DON’T DO IT.
> 
> 2) I am NOT a Jude x Locke shipper I just like angst.
> 
> 3) S/o to Sara for encouraging this.

I know people say they can feel people’s gazes on them. They talk about feeling glances like the brushes of hands, about heat crawling up the neck as a pair of eyes rakes over them. 

  


With Cardan, I feel his absence. There’s a coldness around me, knowing with certainty that he doesn’t see me. Once, he turns in my direction and his gaze doesn’t skate over me so much as through me, never faltering, simply sliding across as though I am invisible. He laughs with his coterie, the Faerie King and courtiers. Nicasia leans close to tell him something. He turns and whispers something back to her, close enough that I can see his lips brush her ear. And on his right — Taryn. _Taryn_. My fingers curl into fists and suddenly I feel sick to my stomach. How dare they come here, to the mortal world, my world now, and act like I’m nothing? Like even here, away from the Faerie courts, I’m the little insect they trapped in their web, whose going to just stay there. Stuck. Squirming. 

I want to march up to them, grab them by the arms and shake them, claw at their eyes with my fingernails, make them _see_ me. But I don’t. I’ll settle for storming away, finding somewhere else to go, the concrete of a parking lot perhaps — somewhere too dull and plain and boring to attract the fae. Somewhere they’d think I belong. I’m about to as well, already turning away from the revelry when I see it. It’s just the barest glimpse of interaction, but in the periphery of my vision it stands out as though they’re singing and dancing. Taryn, my _sister_ Taryn, my _twin_ says something. I can tell by the way her eyes slide over the crowd it’s probably a joke, a snide remark. And Cardan laughs. Not the cruel thing where he’s mocking her, stripping her down to nothing with his jeers. Cardan doesn’t have a “real” laugh but he has this, the cold chuckle of approval. Like she’s amused him. 

I want to tear his skin off with my bare hands. 

I walk towards them then closer and closer, and still he doesn’t — _won’t_ — see me, doesn’t so much as incline his head in my direction though I must be visible through the corner of his eye. So I keep walking. I walk past him, past Taryn, keeping enough berth that I can’t be accused of deliberately disrespecting the royal party — _although I_ am _royal_  the voice in my head hisses, _I_ am _the Queen of Elfhame_ — and stop in front of him. Locke. My brother-in-law. 

He looks at me, the first fae to really do so since they’ve arrived in Maine. 

“Sister,” he greets me with an incline of his head. There’s an edge to his voice though, a spitting, biting edge, one that tells me he hasn’t forgotten what I did to him in the woods. Hasn’t forgiven me either. “Enjoying the revel?”

“Well enough. Though I can think of ways to make it more enjoyable. For all of us.”

He arches an eyebrow, as close as Locke will ever get to showing surprise. “I’d have thought you and I had played out enough games by now.”

“Hardly,” I offer him a brittle smile. I think he knows, when he sees it, that it’s a warning. _I haven’t forgotten either_. “Would you like to dance?”

He regards my outstretched hand for a moment, lingering long enough that I know he’s contemplating having me killed instead, but then he takes it. As I knew he would. 

It’s as we wind our way though the crowds towards the dance floor that I feel it — the prickle of heat on the back of my neck. The weight of someone’s gaze trailing me across the room. 

I know without looking that Cardan has decided to look at me at last. I straighten, taking a glass from one of the glamoured human attendants. It’s wine, not the fae kind, the ordinary human stuff, but it still feels good, settling into a warm pool low in my stomach. 

Locke slips one hand around my waist and clasps my own hand in his other. We’re standing close, and in another world we might have looked like lovers. The music is slower than the most feckless of revel dances, but fast enough that he has to whirl me round, that we both work up sweat-slick faces and tousled hair, that I find myself staggering against him every few spins. 

“I was under the impression,” he says in my ear after one spin that has him drawing me into his chest, “that you wanted me to be faithful to your sister.” His fingers dig into my sides, tightly enough that I know they’ll bruise. People will see the marks. “As I recall, you went to some lengths to make sure I promised.”

He spins me outwards and suddenly, for a long second, my eyes are locked with Cardan’s. He’s not looking through me now. Locke spins me back in. 

“Consider this a...counter offer.” I don’t let him spin me outwards this time. Instead, I press myself closer to him, ignoring the seething I feel at being so close to _him_ , who played me for fool more than once. Who I want dead. 

Locke smiles now. It’s not a smirk, though you’d think it would be given the situation. It’s his usually lazy, laconic smile, the one I’d once thought meant softness and now recognise as something else entirely. “And why would I be interested in that?”

I press myself closer still, wind my arms around his neck, a strange echo of the way I’d clung to Cardan once, in that room in his palace. _Our_ palace. 

“Well,” I glance over at where my husband and my sister stand, both staring at us openly now. Unable to look away. I feel Locke track my gaze with his own. “You do love a good story.”

I wait for his answer, and he lets go of me, turning to walk away. Towards the tents. I have him.

I follow after, head held high as I weave through the crowd, snaking through fae like a snake, unseen but deadly poisonous. 

I’m almost at the fringes of the revelry, the campsite in my line of sight now, when a hand stops me, braceleting my wrist. 

I know it’s him without looking, by the elegant length of his fingers, the cool touch of his palm. The slight, controlled pressure to his grip as though he wants to leave bruises to but won’t let himself. I know it’s Cardan. 

“Don’t,” he says. 

It’s only quiet, the word, little more than whisper but it alone does more to still me than his hand around my wrist. 

I don’t think he’ll speak again, but he does, just for a moment. “Stay.”

I turn to look at him then. He looks right back at me. Nothing in his expression betrays anything. His eyes are as cool and flat as ever, his mouth a firm line. I think about his mouth, how it once explored my own, and my neck, and my breasts. 

I lean close to him, close enough that he’d have only to turn his head for us to be kissing once more. I let my lips brush at the point of his ear. 

“No.” I pull my hand away and walk towards the tents. 

When I find Locke’s, he’s already waiting inside. For a wild moment, I’d wondered if he might undress in preparation, drape himself across the bed like in a movie. But no, he’s just stood there, sleeves rolled up but otherwise perfectly decorous, unbothered as ever a Fae has looked.

I walk right up to him, somehow covering the length of the tent in three strides. Then I kiss him. 

His mouth is already open, and I feel myself gasp as his tongue darts in to taste mine. There’s a strangeness to kissing him. His mouth moves fiercely against mine, nipping and biting and attacking, but there’s none of the heat there was with Cardan. _Cardan_. The memory of being in a room in his palace, skin pressed hot against each other makes me furious suddenly — I take it out on Locke, tearing at his shirt and then my dress, tugging him to me again and raking my nails down his back. The move obviously surprises him, he lets a low growl escape from his throat — it’s a feral sound, very unlike Locke, but that only makes me like it. There are no solid walls to the tent so the canvas of the sides dips when he pushes me into it, grabbing at my underwear and tugging them down in one swift move. I reach back to unclasp my bra as he hitches my legs up around his waist. I feel him hard against my thigh as he does, and move my mouth to the side of his neck, sucking until I’m sure there’s a mark. I picture Taryn seeing it, Cardan seeing it, knowing I put it there. I leave another mark just above it. 

I run my hands down his arms and up his sides, feeling him move under me. He feels different from Cardan, a little softer in places he should be sharp, smooth in places there should be dips and divots. I push down the flicker of disappointment and reach down to grab his ass. This earns another growl as he walks us to the bed, dropping me on it and lowering himself over me. 

“I might have guessed,” he says, eyebrow arched “your sister’s the kitten and you’re the feral little wildcat.”

I reach down and grasp his heat in my hand, twisting just slightly for a moment before letting go. I enjoy watching the cool look on his face give way to wide-eyed shock for that second. 

“Careful,” I tell him, pulling his head down until he gets the hint and puts his mouth on the swell of my breasts, “wildcats have claws.”

“We can have those clipped,” he jibes as his hand comes to pinch at my nipple, and my slight gasp wrenches into a wanton moan when his mouth closes over the other one. _It’s about time_ , I think, my eyes rolling back into my head as his tongue laves my nipple into a stiff peak, _that he put his mouth to good use_ , and his hand works the other breast, rolling the bud between his thumb and forefinger until it pebbles, _doing_ _something other than talking_. 

I want more, need to feel more. “Leave a mark,” I tell him, nudging his chin and offering my throat. “Right here.” 

He pushes my knees apart and settles himself in the cradle of my legs, lowering his mouth to wear I wanted him. Locke lowers a hand between my legs, skates his fingertips along the edges of my heat right as he presses his lips to my neck. I remember Cardan kissing the same spot, tasting the salt of it with his tongue. I throw my head back, and Locke takes advantage of the easy access. I feel him suck and lick and bite at the spot. I know a bruise will bloom there, covering the phantom of Cardan’s mouth. 

Good.

My eyes fly open as Locke’s fingers tease my entrance.

“Strange,” he says, and I have to fight through the haze that seems to be descending on my mind to listen to him.

“W-what?” 

“The sister who tried to kill me certainly seems to get more wet than the one who married me.” 

He pushes a finger inside me and I gasp, and when he adds a second, and then a third, I seem to choke on any sound I might have made.

“If I’ve learned anything,” I have to bury my face in his neck and stifle a groan as he starts pumping the fingers in and out, long languid strokes that stretch me out in a way that leaves me breathless, “it’s that marriage — ah, _fuck!_ — counts for very little.” I curl my fingers into his shoulders, gripping so hard I’m sure it hurts him. “Faster, damn you!”

“Hmm,” Locke presses a kiss to my cheek, the shell of my ear. “Did our King tolerate you barking orders like that?” 

I dig my nails into the skin, leaving crescent marks. “ _Faster_ ,” I say again, this time through gritted teeth.

He does as I ask this time round, and I feel myself begin to clench around his fingers. _They’re not as long as Cardan’s_. The thought rises from some unknown place, and I’m shoving at his shoulders in an instant. 

He understands at once, drawing his hand out, leaving me clenching around nothing. He doesn’t move to offer me any immediate relief however, just pauses to take his fingers in his mouth, lick my juices off of them. 

It’s his turn to groan as he does. “Well,” he chucks me under the chin, smiling faintly when I snarl at him, “it would seem the king has exquisite taste.” He lines himself up with my entrance. “It’s almost surprising he was done with you so quickly.”

I manage to reach up and slap him. It’s feeble, barely touching him, but it’s there. “Fuck you,” I spit at him.

“Very well.” He pushes in, and I have to bite down on his shoulder, refusing to let him hear the moan he’d have elicited. I can feel him. I can feel him inside me. My sister’s husband, my husband’s friend. I’ve taken him from both of them, and he’s taken me. 

“Move,” I tell him. “I swear to god. SeriousIy, I haven’t ruled out killing you yet. Just _move_.”

He does, quick, shallow strokes that don’t go quite far enough. Locke is above me, leaning on his arms as he thrusts. I see the sweat drip from his hair, his face. 

“Wait,” I tell him, “I don’t want it this way.” 

He keeps moving for a moment, until I shove at his arm. With a groan, he pulls out, grabs at my waist and all but throws me down so I have my back to him. He shoves me so I’m on all fours, tugs me back a little closer, and pushes in again. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” I hiss, “that’s it.” The angle is so much better like this, with him plunging into me from behind, hitting that perfect spot with every stroke. I feel the heat pooling in my belly, feel the tension coiling, ready to spring. 

“More,” I grit out, “I need more.” 

He brings both hands up to my breasts without pausing his thrusts, working them. It’s almost enough, all the sensations at once, almost enough to overwhelm me, to give me the release I’m craving. The release I haven’t had since —

Locke pulls me up, up until my back is pressed against his chest, and his fingers pinch at both my nipples, and his thrusts are coming at an angle I’ve never felt before. Spots are dancing in my vision; I think my eyes loll in my head because the strokes are so deep. But I’m still not there, and I need it, I need it _so bad—_

The tent flap burst open. Locke doesn’t so much as falter, only secures his grip around my waist and fucks harder up into me. But for that moment I scarcely  notice, because I’m staring at him, right into his eyes. Cardan. He’s out of breath, like he sprinted here. There’s a wildness to his gaze. Locke thrusts upward with a stroke that makes me gasp, and I see Cardan’s flinch backwards slightly. He looks at me, right at me. He licks his lips. He sees me.

I scream. 

Finally, finally I’m sent careening over the edge, shattering. I fold forward, barely aware of Locke’s cry as I feel him pulsate into me, hardly conscious as he pulls out. I’m panting as I come down from my high, never looking away from Cardan. It’s impossible to read his expression as he half-staggers half-strides backwards out of the tent. I just know he’s not looking through me any longer.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
